Infertile Bastard-the consultation

Today I found out something that I suspected I was for a very long time.

No, I’m not a secret heir to the throne but I’ll get there someday.

The clinical specialist just told me bluntly that I would need help in the task of breeding.

The one prime thing that keeps humans going.

The one thing that has robbed my bank account of £2.50 for over the past twenty years every damn month on sanitary goods.

The one thing that I was looking forward to when I got married to my dear husband.

I walked into the consultancy room all smiles and excited thinking Clomid for my geriatric mum status.

Ten minutes later I felt like shit after hearing the words IVF.

The specialist reeled off what was wrong with me. It wasn’t my lack of alcohol. Nor was it my non existent addiction to recreational drugs where the nearest encounter I had to them was marijuana flavoured candy. It wasn’t a string of non existent STDs and unwanted pregnancies, which I had taken every precaution to avoid. Nor was it the longed arsed named menstrual complications that my female relatives and friends had while my cycles were as regular as the yearly Tour De France.

Instead after living a healthy lifestyle of minimal caffeine, the lesser end of junk food (Waitrose, darling, not Iceland) and just being on the healthy side I was told that there were other factors to keep me from motherhood. My ovarian reserve was shot. Compared to someone else my age, I’d be the ugly sister of eggs.


Something I thought would not be necessary. A mysterious procedure saved for rich celebrities.

I wanted to walk out of that room grateful for my blunt consultation that was brainstorming on how I could have babies. Instead inside I was shaking forgetting my manners and blaming myself even though I didn’t know what else I could’ve done. For God’s sake, me and my husband have an identical sex cycle, being the most horniest during peak ovulation. Now it turned out that Mimi the egg had been refusing a dance with Tommy the Tadpole for the past five years.

And I still had to give blood for the dozenth time after the consultation. Luckily enough like most of the nurses in the blood room, there was enough of a friendly atmosphere to keep me from trying to give myself the death of a thousand cuts by poking myself with a syringe.

Honestly if I had been told that I had two weeks to live, I would’ve embraced the news abit more.

To top it off I was supposed to start my period today. Now stress has made it go into hiding, making me paranoid about early menopause. I really do love this bitch of a body. If she was a person I would punch her right in the face.


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